


Five Stages of Grief

by shalako



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Gen, Grief, Hurt/Comfort, Maybe sex later, archie is awkward and may trigger awkwardness in readers, character is dead in the show too so nbd, idk - Freeform, mentions of archie's parents, minor offscreen character death, past child abuse and abandonment, youve been warned
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-11
Updated: 2016-06-11
Packaged: 2018-07-14 09:41:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7165931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shalako/pseuds/shalako
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's rare for Gold to forget Rent Day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Stages of Grief

**Author's Note:**

> I started going through my fanfiction folder and marking all the documents that I never posted ... which was most of em. So over the next few days I'll try to upload a lot of those on here.

It’s six p.m. and Mr. Gold still hasn’t come by for the rent. Archie stares at the clock on the wall, shifting in his seat. He wonders if Gold has forgotten -- usually, he comes at around 10 o’clock, Archie’s free hour between patients.

Most people, Archie knows, would be thrilled if their landlord just happened to forget about Rent Day. But there are certain red-headed therapists who are simply too anxious for that. He runs through a cycle of awful scenarios in his head: What if there’s been a miscommunication? What if Gold sent him some sort of notice saying that _Archie_ had to bring the rent in this time, and Archie missed it? What if Gold just forgot today was Rent Day and every other tenant brings him the money they owe except Archie?

There’s only one way out of this that Archie can see. He takes the envelope full of this month’s rent and stuffs it into his pocket before he heads out the door.

Archie knows where Gold’s house is only by chance -- a few years ago, he had to house-sit for a friend who went to England for the summer, and he went two weeks without noticing that Gold was his new next-door neighbor. The guest bedroom’s window of his friend’s house faced the window in Gold’s kitchen, and Archie was gazing out it, daydreaming, for roughly five minutes before he realized there was a familiar person in that kitchen, and they were staring back at him.

Well, _glaring_ back at him.

Regardless.

Gold’s house is all the way across town and it’s snowing hard, so Archie takes the car. He’s still flipping through what-if situations in his head, wondering how much trouble he’ll be in for being late, whether his rent will be upped or not. He barely notices where he’s driving until he reaches Mr. Gold’s neighborhood and slows down. This, incidentally, is when his hands start shaking. Instead of what-ifs, he’s now imagining Gold yelling at him. Archie’s never heard Gold yell; it’s just his luck that he’d be the first to invoke the other man’s wrath.

He parks the car a little down the block, in case Mr. Gold gets offended by poor people using his driveway. When he steps up to the ornate front door, his heart is pounding and he’s already shivering from the cold. He imagines knocking on the stained-glass window and accidentally shattering it.

 _Okay_ , Archie tells himself. _Maybe try not to panic yourself anymore_.

He knocks.

Nothing happens. He waits ten seconds and then knocks again.

Maybe Mr. Gold isn’t home? Archie tries to remember when the pawn shop closes. He’s certain the sign on the door says its hours are nine-to-five, but he _also_ remembers seeing Mr. Gold at the counter well past eight at night. Should he go check the pawnshop instead? Should he try knocking a few more times? Should--

The door opens. Archie blinks, startled by the sudden movement -- and then he takes in Mr. Gold’s appearance and his eyebrows furrow.

Gold is half-dressed and looks off-kilter, like he’s either drunk or very tired. He’s not wearing his suit jacket; his tie has been lost somewhere, and there are dark shadows under his eyes. Archie has never seen him look this pale.

But he’s not here to worry about Gold’s appearance.

“Uh, I’m here about rent?” Archie says, taking the envelope out of his pocket. It’s slightly crumpled; he holds it out to Gold and waits for the other man to A) recognize it, and B) reach out and take it. This takes an agonizingly long time; even Gold looks embarrassed at his own slowness.

“You didn’t come to get it,” Archie explains awkwardly, as if this fact weren’t patently clear. “So I figured something must’ve happened, and I didn’t want you to -- uh, I don’t know. Fall behind. Or get mad, or something.”

To be honest, he had no fear that Gold would ‘fall behind.’

Mr. Gold stares at him, face blank. “It’s rent day?” he asks. Archie opens his mouth to answer and takes a deep breath instead, steadying himself.

“Yes. It is.”

Gold stares down at the envelope in his hand for a long time. Finally, he brushes the hair back from his face and says, “Right. Sorry. I’ve had a busy day.”

They stand there, neither of them making a move to leave. Now that his anxiety has been erased, Archie is starting to feel worried about someone other than himself. He looks at Gold carefully, trying to figure out what’s wrong.

“Busy day?” he asks finally. When in doubt, ask.

“Yes,” Gold says, and almost ends the sentence there. But then he continues before he has time to doubt himself. “My father died.”

Oh. Archie can’t think of anything to say for a moment; he has a whole library of comforting platitudes in his head, but somehow he doesn’t think those will work on Gold. He realizes now that he always assumed Gold had no family, that his parents were long-dead. He tries to conjure up an image of Gold’s father in his head, but he’s not sure he’s ever seen the man before.

“He doesn’t live here,” Gold says, as if reading Archie’s mind. “I haven’t seen him since I was eight …” He looks a little confused, maybe at his own uncharacteristic honesty. He opens his mouth to go on, but then thinks better of it and shakes his head. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to --”

“Don’t worry about it,” Archie says. He shrugs and has just enough time to wonder if the next sentence will be awkward before he blurts it out. “I love talking to people about things.”

It’s awkward. It’s so awkward. Was there a better way to word that?

“I mean, emotional things,” Archie says. His brain is yelling _‘stop_.’ “Therapy things. Like trauma, and -- er --”

“Right,” Gold says, looking at him kind of strangely.

“I am a therapist,” Archie says.

“I know,” says Gold. He looks thoroughly concerned for Archie’s mental health. “Do you need to sit down?”

“No, no,” says Archie, waving his hand dismissively. “Why, do you? I can make you some tea--”

“This is _my_ house,” Gold points out. “You don’t even know where the tea is -- look, did you walk here?”

“Yes,” says Archie, before he can even wonder why he’s lying.

“You must be terribly cold,” Gold says, though he still seems a bit too shell-shocked to really be worried. “Come inside. I’ll give you a ride home.”

“Oh, that’s --” Archie gestures futilely, thinking of his car, parked just around the corner. “Um, I mean --”

Gold steps back inside, leaving the door open for Archie to follow him. Archie hesitates for a moment, staring at the hallway that stretches out before him. It’s dimly lit, but he can make out a few pieces of antique furniture and the dusty hardwood floors.

He wonders if Gold is really inviting him in because it’s cold outside, or if that’s just an excuse. With anyone else, Archie would assume it was an excuse, but with Gold, every action merits a second glance.

“Would you like something to drink?” Gold asks him, heading into the kitchen.

“Uh,” says Archie. He never knows what people expect him to say when they ask if he’s thirsty. He doesn’t have any way of knowing what’s in someone else’s fridge -- what if he asks for Sprite and all they have is water? Or what if he asks for water and all they have is vodka? What if he asks for vodka and they judge him because it’s a Thursday and he has work tomorrow morning?

He snaps out of his thoughts when Gold pops a coffee mug into the microwave and punches in a time. With elegant movements that don’t quite match up with his tired eyes, Gold fetches a little square tin from the cupboard and opens it -- the smell of cocoa wafts through the air.

Archie feels thoroughly seduced. When the microwave goes off, Gold just pulls the mug out and starts stirring.

“You’re not lactose-intolerant …?” he checks belatedly, handing the mug to Archie. Archie sips from it and shakes his head. “I should have asked earlier--” Gold begins, but Archie waves the apology away.

“It’s fine. I only _look_ like a total nerd, I promise.”

Gold hums dispassionately and looks down at the floor, leaning on the counter. Archie instantly regrets his attempt at a joke -- what if _Gold_ is lactose-intolerant? Well, he wouldn’t have milk, then, so that’s out. But what if his _dad_ was? It would be just Archie’s luck to insult a dead man right in front of his son -- on the day he died, no less.

Gold looks awful; Archie watches him as he sips the hot chocolate, remembering the last time he saw Gold in any sort of vulnerable condition. It must have been years ago, and it isn’t something Archie remembers very often -- the memory doesn’t fit in with his mental image of Gold, so he tends to ignore it.

It hadn’t been a therapy session like some might assume; Archie had wandered into the shady men’s room at the general store, the one hidden back in storage, and he’d noticed immediately that someone was sitting on the floor, hyperventilating. But even though Archie was staring directly at the man, it took him ages to realize who he was.

Panic attacks. Severe anxiety. Crippling depression. These were just the things Archie picked up on during a brief, tearful conversation that didn’t even last five minutes. Gold probably didn’t remember it -- he hadn’t known who Archie was when they talked, and he’d still been pretty out of it when Archie left.

It doesn’t matter. Gold looks significantly calmer now than he did back then, but that doesn’t mean this is a comfortable situation for Archie. He scrutinizes Gold for a dog’s age, until the other man catches him staring and gives him a sarcastic look in response.

Gold holds out his hand and after a moment of confusion, Archie realizes he’s reaching for the empty mug. He watches Gold deposit it in the sink.

“How, uh -- how did he pass?” Archie asks, shuffling his feet. Gold looks confused for a moment; then his face is wiped blank.

“Overdose.”

“Over--?”

Gold gives a single, jerky shrug, refusing to meet Archie’s eyes. Archie hesitates over what to say next; he wants to ask what Gold’s father overdosed on, and whether it was an accident or on purpose. But instead, he asks,

“You said you haven’t seen him since you were eight?”

Gold looks at him sharply -- or as sharply as one can when exhausted. Archie stutters horribly.

“I-I mean, d-did he -- um --”

“Let’s drive you home, shall we?” Gold says, pushing away from the counter. He sways for a moment but carries on like his balance never lapsed.

“Are you okay to drive?” Archie asks uncertainly.

“Yes.”

“A-are you sure? Because--”

Gold’s cane snags on the leg of a chair and he stumbles, nearly falling to the ground. Archie catches him by the arm and holds him steady a little longer than is absolutely necessary. When Gold pulls away, his face is burning and he won’t look Archie in the eye.

“You’ve been drinking, haven’t you?” Archie asks, no judgment in his voice.

“No.”

“Your eyes are red.”

“I’ve been crying,” Gold snaps. He seems to immediately regret speaking; Archie’s ridiculously shocked expression might have something to do with it. Gold tries to backtrack. “I-I haven’t been. I meant --”

“It’s normal to cry,” Archie offers, remembering how to talk again. “Your dad--”

“He’s a bastard,” Gold says, voice rough. He closes his eyes for a moment, looking irritated at himself. “ _Was_ a bastard. It doesn’t matter.”

“Well, you seem pretty torn up about it,” Archie points out. He takes a seat at the kitchen table, ignoring Gold’s incredulous, wide eyes, and motions for Gold to sit down, too. Gold clenches his jaw. “If you want to talk, I’m here,” Archie says. “I can listen.”

He watches Gold take a slow breath and release it in a sigh. “Okay,” Gold says with a note of finality. “I’ve changed my mind. You can walk home.”

There’s a small pause. Gold makes no move to leave the room, and neither does Archie.

“My car’s parked around the corner,” Archie admits. “I don’t know why I lied. Sorry. Either way, you can’t threaten me with anything to make me go away.”

“Except perhaps trespassing.”

“Wha-- no, that can’t be right,” Archie says. “This isn’t trespassing. You -- you invited me in.”

“And now I’m telling you to leave,” says Gold. “You’re arguing law with a lawyer, Dr. Hopper.”

Archie looks at him suspiciously. “You’re not a lawyer.”

“Willing to bet on that?”

Archie arranges his voice to sound more certain. And placating. “You’re not a lawyer. You’re just grieving.”

“I _can_ be both, you know,” Gold says, finally taking a seat. “Lawyers have been known to grieve; it just so happens that I’m _not_.”

“A lawyer or grieving?” Archie asks.

“ _Grieving_.”

“Denial,” says Archie wisely.

“That’s not even what denial _means_ ,” Gold snaps. “I’m supposed to be denying that my father is _dead_ , not that I’m in grief.”

Archie considers a snarky comment -- “you’re arguing psychology with a psychologist” -- but decides to take the high road instead. “Everyone experiences grief differently, Mr. Gold. Some people deny that their loved one is dead, and some deny that they’re grieving. Some people never go through denial at all. In your case, you’re dealing with the grief for your father in conjunction with your anger over being abandoned, so it’s all a bit more complicated.”

“I wasn’t _abandoned_ ,” says Gold hotly. Archie just raises his eyebrows. “I was -- he didn’t leave because --” Gold struggles for words for a moment. He can only string a sentence together when he closes his eyes and pretends Archie isn’t there. “It wasn’t your typical abandonment dynamic. He didn’t leave because he was a bad father; he left because I was a bad kid,” Gold says firmly.

There’s a brief silence; Gold glares at the table. Archie feels like he’s been hit in the face with a hardback copy of _Adult Children of Abusive Parents_.

“Does that sound rational to you?” Archie asks, as gently as possible. Gold stares at him in something close to disbelief.

“Get out of my house. _I’m_ _not_ _grieving_ \-- I don’t need to deal with your --”

Gold’s voice breaks. He shuts up instantly, looking horrified at himself. Archie considers his options for a moment, wondering if Gold is really open for a heart-to-heart chat right now.

“I, uh -- I guess I’ll go home, then,” Archie says. He gets up and pushes his chair in; Gold stays put, now fighting back tears. “If -- if you need to talk, you know where to find me. My door is always open.”

“Right,” Gold says, no louder than a whisper. Archie sees himself out, welcoming the cold winter air. He feels embarrassed for even attempting to comfort Gold in the first place. At the end of Gold’s yard, Archie looks back - he can see Gold through the kitchen window, still sitting at the dining room table, now with his face in his hands and his shoulders shaking.

 _Tears are good_ , Archie tells himself, his face turning hot. Gold’s a grown man - he doesn’t need Archie to walk him through the grief process.

But later that night, when Archie is alone and trying to sleep, all he can think about is Gold. Archie doesn’t have to think hard about why someone would be so devastated over the loss of a dick who abandoned them four decades ago -- Archie was pretty upset himself when his parents died, and he hadn’t seen them in twenty years.

 _It’s the loss of opportunity, not the loss of a person_ , Archie thinks. Up until his parents died, he could pretend that one day they would apologize for how he treated him, or that they would come back into his life, completely reformed and full of love. But death had robbed him of that fantasy. He wondered if Gold used to fantasize about something similar - his father coming back and apologizing, offering to stay.

Archie hadn’t known his dad was dead until five years later, when his mom died, too. Was Gold’s mother still alive? Gold hadn’t mentioned anything about going to see her, which Archie assumed most people did when one of their parents died. But if Gold’s father had left the family, Archie could easily imagine his mother not caring.

And of course, his mother could be dead, too.

Archie sighs, putting an arm over his eyes to shut out the light from his alarm clock. He’s really in no position to be thinking about Gold so much. They’re not friends, and Gold isn’t his patient.

It’s time to leave well enough alone.


End file.
